Turn the Summer Into Dust
by nadamilieu
Summary: Don Ressler does not get drunk. But by chance if he does, luck is not on his side. It's okay though, it's all part of the process of healing. (set mid-season one)


**Turn the Summer into Dust**

_"Something filled up my heart with nothing, someone told me not to cry. But now that I'm older, my heart's colder, and I can see that it's a lie. Children wake up, hold your mistake up, before they turn the summer into dust." - Arcade Fire_

Chapter One

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><p>Don Ressler never got drunk.<p>

Sure, there were those nights in college with his fraternity buddies where he let loose not knowing better, the situation getting the better of him, but he was just a boy who didn't have a worry of his life back then. Now, he's Special Agent Don Ressler, a man devoted to his work, his mind committed to have only one aim and purpose – to catch the bad guys.

He was a logical man and a sound one at that. The years of working made him guarded and he hated anything that made his mind clouded or lose focus. He hated opening himself to vulnerability and losing his focus that made him the veteran field agent that he is today.

Of course there were nights that he had drinks with his colleagues at work, but Don Ressler made it a point to never drink enough to be drunk. Just two bottles of beer, he knew his limit and he was going to keep by them.

But one day, his fiancée died. His best friend betrayed him and killed himself. He didn't know who his friends or enemies were at this point. His fiancée could have been pregnant and she died. All because of him.

He grieved silently. He wasn't a man of many tears, but he did grieve. He found it hard to go back to the house they once shared; he found it hard in general to continue his life because he couldn't stop thinking about her. He knew time would make him heal, but that itself made him feel worse because he didn't deserve to feel better. His fiancée whom he loved died because of him, and he shouldn't get to deal and forget about what happened. But it was making him miserable.

He made it a point to be busy with work; he was never the one to let his emotions get the better of him. The busier he was, the less he felt. It was better for him to be catching the bastards that did things like terrorize and kill innocent people than to mope around not being able to bring justice for her death. So that was what he did. He put all the energy that he had to work. Some were worried about him, including Elizabeth Keen. He was never close with her, in fact, he never liked her from the beginning, but he was starting to understand her. And he knew deep inside that she was a good person, but he wasn't going to let it show altogether.

Before he knew it, several weeks passed since the incident. Elizabeth Keen was still worried about him, wanting him to take some personal time off, but he refused because he was okay. He shouldn't have been, but he was. Plus, it was a good day on the job. Don, along with Elizabeth and other field agents, were able to bring down another number something on Reddington's list, along with other terrorists that were related to the assignment they were handed with.

He was in a better mood compared to most days, and remembered going out for drinks with some of his colleagues. Everyone had a stressful few weeks and wanted a night of relaxation, if they can call it that. From what Don remembered from a year ago (yes, it was that long since the last "night of relaxation"), it was a few hours of drinking, talking, the self-called funny guys making jokes here and there and everyone hits home before it gets too late because they're tired and they have work the very next day.

The night was dark and its air cool on his skin. By the time he stepped into the bar, people were already celebrating with a few drinks. He even saw Cooper mingling with a few people.

Don was okay. Really, he was. He made small talk here and there with the people that he normally does not talk to. There weren't a great number of people that was recruited at the black site, but that didn't mean he talked and formed a close relationship with all of them. He only talked to those whose help was needed in an assignment. So, he was making an effort this time, because he was okay. He even laughed at the ridiculous attempts of jokes made by a fellow agent to lighten up the mood.

But one drink here turned to five drinks there and before he could stop to think about his limit, he couldn't even count the number of drinks that he had. What was worse was that Don wasn't a loud drunk. He would act just like he would normally act, if not nicer. His speech would slur a little and he would lighten up a little, get off of his high horse, he remembered a friend telling him a long time ago. No one will stop him from drinking, from getting his judgments and thoughts clouded.

So, he didn't know how he managed to get out of the bar or how he managed to find his way back home to his bed. He couldn't remember how many drinks he had and he couldn't remember anything that happened after Cooper tried to loosen up himself to make a pathetic joke – even Don couldn't laugh at that one no matter how drunk he was.

It was a miracle that he opened his eyes at his usual time to get up and ready for work. He was hung-over. He could feel it even though he was half-asleep. His eyes were closed and the sun light shining to his eyes was making him feel worse than he felt. He put his arm over his eyes to block it, and that's when he realized something was off.

He never had the curtains drawn in his room. He actually never got sunlight in the morning because of the direction his room was facing.

He awoke from his sleep fully. His mind went into full special agent mode. He kept his current position, on his back, arms drawn over his closed eyes and tried to think and remember where he was. That's when he realized that it wasn't just the fact that he wasn't at his house that was off, it was the soft pressure on his other arm, obviously not something part of the bed. Something that felt strangely like a human hand. A female hand. A female hand that started to detach from his arm because the person to who the hand belonged to was beginning to stir, slowly awaking.

He silently cursed in his head. This was why he never got drunk.

He did what he thought was the sensible thing to do in this situation. He lowered his arm from his eyes and opened them. He was lying on a bed that was obviously not in his room. The sun was shining brightly into the room, allowing him to observe everything. He didn't recognize any of what he saw.

He slowly turned his head to the right and was faced with a sleeping face of a woman who he also didn't recognize. She seemed to be young, younger than him anyway, and had long, light brown hair that cascaded around her head, messy and tangled from whatever activity from the day before. Right, he cringed, with him.

He looked at her face again and was slightly taken back to find that she was now fully awake like him, her eyes meeting his and looking as surprised as he was when he woke up.

She didn't say anything. Instead, she tried to get up. He watched her face redden a little as she got back down because she realized her lack of clothing. She then gathered the covers to cover her and faced him again. She looked as though she wanted to say or do something, but couldn't because she had no idea how to react. She seemed even more dumbfounded that he seemed to take no action, just there next to her on the bed watching her.

Normally, his mind would be functioning correctly, but this morning his mind went blank. It was as though both of them did not know how they got to be in this bed. Together. Without any clothes.

He's always been raised to be a gentleman, to respect women, so he did the first thing that came to his mind.

"Hi. I'm Don Ressler."

He introduced himself.

Of course, he felt a bit idiotic after the words came out of his mouth, but the way she was staring at him, eyes surprised and lips slightly parted, hands fistful of the covers she used to cover her, he felt _bad_.

She looked down after staring at him for a moment.

"I know who you are," She told him as she dragged the covers to get up from the bed. She left him there on the bed staring at her retreating from and proceeded to walk away from the bed.

"I'm Madalene," She added, turning around to face him. "I'm guessing from the look on your face, you don't remember what happened either?"

"No," he said as he rubbed his temple. "Had a few too many drinks."

"Me, too," She let her eyes wander around the room so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes or look at his very naked form on her bed. "So, look. I'm going to get ready because I'm late for work, and you should really do the same and leave before this gets even more awkward."

With that, she went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her and hoped he'll listen to her advice.

That's when his mind came to its senses and prompted him to get up and get the hell out of this place, her place, he assumed. As he put his clothes back on he heard the shower run. So, she knew who he was. Maybe he met her at the bar and introduced himself to her last night. It didn't matter. All he needed to do was hurry up and get to the post office and out of this ridiculing situation.

He left the place without looking back.

He took a good look around the neighborhood as he stepped outside. He knew he was still in DC, he could see the Washington Monument from a distance, but where the hell was he? His location wasn't his greatest problem, though.

"Where's my car?" He grunted to himself as he looked around to find his black vehicle.

Yes, Donald Ressler never got drunk. But by chance if he did, luck was not on his side.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own The Blacklist or any of the characters including Don Ressler.  
>AN: Character study of Don Ressler. This chapter is a slow chapter; things will start to get interesting starting from the next chapters. Please read and review and tell me what you think.


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